Don't Let Go
by MS Carrigale
Summary: Trapped in a burning building, John and Mary are left to face down Moriarty while Sherlock races against the will of fire to save them. Emotions betray the detective as he finds that he is too late.
1. Prolouge

For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes didn't know what to say, think, or do.

The red and blue lights of the ambulances, the firetrucks, and the police cars made him dizzy as he looked into the ashen face of his best friend. Crying, Mary sat next to him on the cold pavement as she cradled her husband's bleeding head in her lap. She kept repeating his name, over and over again as rivers of tears flowed down her cheeks: "John. John. John." Sherlock had done all he could: called the ambulance, staunched the blood flow from the wound, made sure that John was consious so he couldn't slip away. But had he done all he could to find he and Mary in the first place? Obviously not.

I summed up the situation from where I stood, next to Sally Donovan and Detective Inspector Lestrade. This was my first call to a crime scene, but to me it wasn't that at all. It was the site for a party and then maybe a bonfire. "It's murder," Sally stated bluntly. "No," I replied. "It's great!" "Just because he's a villain and he was killed doesn't mean it's a good thing." I gestured franctically towards the dark haired man that was being tightly zipped up into a black body bag. "Donovan!" I cried, exhasperated. "That is the body of James Moriarty. He is dead. _Dead. _And you're saying we _shouldn't celebrate?" _Sally looked pointedly at me. "Look, Caller," she said. "Moriarty may have been a ruthless killer, but that doesn't mean he was a living person, and" "No, no," I interrupted, agitated now. Why couldn't she understand? "He-" I was cut short by a long, agonized scream that pierced my heart. I didn't know what was going on. Who had shrieked? Whoever it was, their voice was so full of pain and sorrow that I was terrified, yet sorely grieved at the same time. Lestrade made his way over to the group of two that surrounded the wounded man. He and the woman we had rescued, but the third had arrived when we had, determind to help in the mission. For some reason, Lestrade had let him, without any hesitation whatsoever. He looked familiar, so I had inquired. "What's your name, sir?" I asked, notebook in hand. It was, after all, procedure. He had looked stunned. "What?" he queried breathlessly. "Name, sir," I repeated."Sherlock Holmes," he replied. Then his eyes widened and he dashed to the two people being helped out of the building. "John!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "Mary!"

"Detective Caller, what are you doing?" shouted Lestrade. "Procedure!" I yelped back, frightened. I would never admit this to anyone, but Detective Inspector Lestrade scared me more than anyone I'd ever met.

But enough of that. I'll continue with the story. At least, when I'm done, you'll have some idea of what happened. Where was I...?

Oh yes. The scream.

Upon hearing it, I ran as fast as I could over to Holmes and the victims of the fire. The ones that the firefighters had rescued. Unfortunately, they couldn't be of any help to the rescued people. One was perfectly fine. The other, I figured, was dying. That was why the paramedics hadn't brought them to the hospital. There was nothing they could possibly do.

The woman, Mary, was the one that had screamed. In fact, she was still screaming. Screaming that pain-filled, agonized scream that I could only just bear to listen to without breaking down and crying myself. Holmes was bent over the last man. John, I believe his name was. Holmes lifted his head for a split second, and I saw. Holmes was crying.

Then it all came to me. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. Wasn't he the one that didn't have emotions, the one who was famous for divorcing himself from his feelings? I felt positive he was.

So why was he crying?

The answer came as soon as I saw John Watson's face, and without a doubt, I knew what had broken the great detective, what had caused the horrible screams.

He was dead.


	2. Chapter 2: Naughty, Naughty

For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes didn't know what to say, think, or do.

The red and blue lights of the ambulances, the firetrucks, and the police cars made him dizzy as he looked into the ashen face of his best friend. Crying, Mary sat next to him on the cold pavement as she cradled her husband's bleeding head in her lap. She kept repeating his name, over and over again as rivers of tears flowed down her cheeks: "John. John. John." Sherlock had done all he could: called the ambulance, staunched the blood flow from the wound, made sure that John was consious so he couldn't slip away. But had he done all he could to find he and Mary in the first place? Obviously not.

I summed up the situation from where I stood, next to Sally Donovan and Detective Inspector Lestrade. This was my first call to a crime scene, but to me it wasn't that at all. It was the site for a party and then maybe a bonfire. "It's murder," Sally stated bluntly. "No," I replied. "It's great!" "Just because he's a villain and he was killed doesn't mean it's a good thing." I gestured franctically towards the dark haired man that was being tightly zipped up into a black body bag. "Donovan!" I cried, exhasperated. "That is the body of James Moriarty. He is dead. _Dead. _And you're saying we _shouldn't celebrate?" _Sally looked pointedly at me. "Look, Caller," she said. "Moriarty may have been a ruthless killer, but that doesn't mean he was a living person, and" "No, no," I interrupted, agitated now. Why couldn't she understand? "He-" I was cut short by a long, agonized scream that pierced my heart. I didn't know what was going on. Who had shrieked? Whoever it was, their voice was so full of pain and sorrow that I was terrified, yet sorely grieved at the same time. Lestrade made his way over to the group of two that surrounded the wounded man. He and the woman we had rescued, but the third had arrived when we had, determind to help in the mission. For some reason, Lestrade had let him, without any hesitation whatsoever. He looked familiar, so I had inquired. "What's your name, sir?" I asked, notebook in hand. It was, after all, procedure. He had looked stunned. "What?" he queried breathlessly. "Name, sir," I repeated."Sherlock Holmes," he replied. Then his eyes widened and he dashed to the two people being helped out of the building. "John!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "Mary!"

"Detective Caller, what are you doing?" shouted Lestrade. "Procedure!" I yelped back, frightened. I would never admit this to anyone, but Detective Inspector Lestrade scared me more than anyone I'd ever met.

But enough of that. I'll continue with the story. At least, when I'm done, you'll have some idea of what happened. Where was I...?

Oh yes. The scream.

Upon hearing it, I ran as fast as I could over to Holmes and the victims of the fire. The ones that the firefighters had rescued. Unfortunately, they couldn't be of any help to the rescued people. One was perfectly fine. The other, I figured, was dying. That was why the paramedics hadn't brought them to the hospital. There was nothing they could possibly do.

The woman, Mary, was the one that had screamed. In fact, she was still screaming. Screaming that pain-filled, agonized scream that I could only just bear to listen to without breaking down and crying myself. Holmes was bent over the last man. John, I believe his name was. Holmes lifted his head for a split second, and I saw. Holmes was crying.

Then it all came to me. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. Wasn't he the one that didn't have emotions, the one who was famous for divorcing himself from his feelings? I felt positive he was.

So why was he crying?

The answer came as soon as I saw John Watson's face, and without a doubt, I knew what had broken the great detective, what had caused the horrible screams.

He was dead.

Chapter 2

_I smiled as I snapped my cell phone shut. "Oh, this is going to be sooo much fun," I chuckled to myself. A light tap on the door interuppted me from my gloating. "Come in," I commanded lightly. Fearfully, a woman's fair head peeked into my room. "Sir," she said hesitantly. "Yes, what is it, Natalie? Talking isn't really your thing, is it?" Natalie's porcilin ckeeks blushed a light shade of pink. "Sir!" she protested angrily. "Do you really have such a limited vocabulary?" I questioned mockingly. This whole time, I hadn't even turned around to face her. "No, sir," she replied. "In fact-" I heard a click. "It's not limited at all. I have an enourmous vocabulary. Included are the words sesquipedalian, accoutnements, gasconading, idiosyncratic, unparagond, saxicolous..." she trailed off. I, to say in the least, was unimpressed. "Oh, Natalie," I snorted. "Then you should know that I am ferociously and tremendously unhappy at your attempt to awe me with your unnaturally ridiculous, large, uninteresting, unimportant figures of speech." Purposely, I made this sentence long and full of it just to annoy her. I imagined that her face was priceless. Probably her eyes were dangling out of her sockets while her jaw was residing on the expensive carpet. I thought that maybe I should tell her to put her face back together, when... _

_"You know, sir, for a genius you're rather thick." Thick? As in thickheaded? That I was unable to see things that were right in front of me? "What did you say?" The words came slithering out of my mouth, dangerous and filled with warnings of a coming poisonous bite. Slowly, I twisted my head around, eventually bringing my body around with it. Then, I noticed that maybe I should have tried to figure out what the clicking noise that I had heard could have been. I noticed that my life may depend on it. _

_In the hands of my attendant, Natalie Beckett, was a British Army Browning L9A1.  
_

_I smiled. This had been bound to happen, and oh, had I been looking forward to it. _

_"Finally," I gasped dramatically. "Little Natalie has come out of her shell."  
_

_Her face hardened and she glared at me. But I realized that her hands were shaking slightly. "You know, Natalie," I said, beginning to walk towards her. Her whole body began to quake. "You're reminding me of another attempt on my life. Another boring person holding the same British Army Browning L9A1." She stared at me, the malice in her eyes gone. Instead I saw fear, anxiety. "My dear Natalie," I crooned. "You would never kill me." Her mouth opened and shut like a dying and suffocating goldfish, but no words came out. "If you were properly thinking, then you'd ask, 'Why, sir?' And I would calmly and rightly reply..." I stood directly in front of her, so that our noses were almost touching. The barrel of the gun was pressed loosely up to my stomach, but it didn't bother me in the least. "...because I...O...U." I stopped for a long, deep pause. "Tell that to the person who put you up to this," I whispered. "I dare you. Call him right now and tell him." "I could kill you right now," she murmured, but her tone shook with panic. "No you can't," I replied softly. Slowly, I worked the gun out of Natalie's hands. She didn't resist. A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, but otherwise I kept an emotionless mask. This tended to terrify people more than if I were to smile, although there was definitely a time and place for smiling. "Because you don't have the guts." I took a moment to let the fact that she had failed sink in. Then I stalked over to my window, opened it, and waited to an innocent, boring passerby to walk directly underneath my window. As an old woman struggling with several heavy bags of groceries set foot into the trap, I allowed a pleasant grin to spread across my face. "Bombs away!" I sang. She looked up just in time to be smacked in the face by the gun...which must have hurt. But I didn't care. No pain, no gain. "Ooopsie," I chuckled darkly. Natalie still stood in the doorway. She looked so scared that I presumed that she had had an accident. "Run along," I commanded with a little wave of my hand. "I will no longer be requiring your services, since you have decided stupidly to dash off and work for Sherlock...he hired you to kill me, didn't he?" Natalie's eyes were the size of elephant's ears. The girl was clearly terrified. How quaint. "Yes. Tell your employer Mr. Sherlock Holmes that he shouldn't have been so NAUGHTY!" I shouted with a sudden burst of anger. Satisfied, I grinned as Natalie shrieked and darted out of the room. "Oh, so very, very naughty," I muttered to myself. I opened my cell phone. "Well, we can't have it. He'll have to pay." And pay he would. _

_Little did I know, so would I. _

_My one way trip to hell was zooming up faster than I had ever imagined. _


End file.
